


Fantasies of Sinful Screens

by thereweregiants



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Little of substance, M/M, Voyeurism, implied John/Martin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:13:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27554410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thereweregiants/pseuds/thereweregiants
Summary: John intends to find out what Peter Lukas is up to.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Peter Lukas
Comments: 4
Kudos: 35





	Fantasies of Sinful Screens

**Author's Note:**

> sometimes you just want a little porn
> 
> title from Portishead's [Sour Times](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VoSoZyiHZ6o)

It bothers John, realizing that he doesn’t know the whole Institute. The tunnels, the Archives, the floors that are his, sure. But upstairs, where apparently Peter Lukas has taken reign? 

John doesn’t just not know, he doesn’t Know. And when he tries to look it’s just - static.

Who Peter Lukas is and what he’s planning on doing with the Institute and the Archives and John himself are all important, of course, but at the back of his mind it’s always - 

Martin.

What is Peter doing with him? What does Peter want with him? Martin’s a researcher, it’s not like he has any particular value to someone like Peter, he certainly didn’t to Elias. 

(Martin of course has value to John, but that’s - that’s different. That’s John.)

And so one late night when John can’t hear anyone or anything moving around, he wanders casually upstairs. Moseys, really. Saunters. Casual as can be, that’s him. Not for any particular reason, of course, just to - 

To see. 

And if there are lockpicks in his pocket well, then. He has no idea how they got there.

It’s dark upstairs, belying the height of the floors, how they exist in the air above the dank London streets. No windows that John can see, and it bothers him to realize he has no idea if there are windows on the outside of the building or not. He’s never looked - no, wait. He’s never been able to remember. 

Carpet softens his footsteps, not that they’re loud to begin with, and the small noises he makes are swallowed up by tall ceilings and mahogany woodwork. Pretentious bullshit, all of it, and given that John has survived Oxford, he’d know.

John walks and wanders, starts to wonder if he should have brought a GPS or breadcrumbs or some such. He peers at every door to look for name plates, but there’s nothing. He’s just about to go back when he hears it.

Martin.

It’s Martin, gasping in pain. John knows that sound, Knows it in his bones. He walks faster and quieter, and finally around a corner there’s a cracked door with light streaming out into the hallway like it’s trying to escape what’s inside. 

It’s syrupy and golden, bringing with it a variety of soft sounds just out of John’s hearing range. That is, until he hears Martin again. In - pain? 

John pads closer, feet silent. He inches forward until his head is caught in the spill of light, until he can see into the room - and freezes.

It’s Martin, to be sure. But he doesn’t look like he’s in pain. He looks - as much of the opposite of that as possible. He’s shirtless and pantsless and to be perfectly honest about it, he looks like he’s getting fucked to within an inch of his life. Open mouthed and red-cheeked and panting, held up by strong arms as he squirms and twitches. 

John has to force himself to tear his eyes away from Martin to see the other man. 

Peter Lukas.

He’s tall, taller even than Martin who John tends to forget has a good head on John himself until they’re standing next to each other because Martin is forever bending, swaying towards John. His shoulders are broad, the edges of a suit coat visible just behind Martin’s bare shoulders. There’s a hand wrapped around Martin’s chest, splayed out possessively in a way that makes it hard for John to swallow. His fingers are thick and long, so very pale against where Martin is flushed a bright pink.

Apparently when Martin gets fucked he blushes all over. John wishes he didn’t know that. 

At least not like this.

Martin’s eyes are glassy and staring out into nothingness, and his mouth hangs open slightly, bottom lip shiny and swollen. He makes small noises every time Peter thrusts forward, unconscious noises that make John bite the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood.

Peter’s other hand moves, then. Reaches down to wrap itself around Martin’s thick thigh and draw it up until Martin’s foot is propped up on a chair. His large pale hand pushes on Martin’s leg, moving it to the side. 

Spreading Martin out.

John can see now, oh how he can see. He can see the core of Martin, the lips and folds all red and swollen like they’ve been at this awhile, drips and threads of stickiness displaying his enjoyment of it. John can see Peter here too, see the base of his thick pale cock slide into Martin over and over, the slickness it’s coated in glinting in the desk light.

Peter Lukas and his bone-colored hands whisper something in Martin’s ear, something too low for John to hear, something Martin doesn’t seem to react to. Martin does react though when that hand slides from his thigh inwards, until his moon-white fingers are sliding against blood-red glossy skin, wrapping around a jutting nub that makes Martin moan and something tighten deep within John’s body. 

Martin’s head turns to the side, mouth open and searching like a newborn’s until it finds Peter’s cheek. He mouths his way over until they’re kissing, Martin giving so sweetly and softly underneath Peter as his head is tilted back. 

Peter holds Martin down with mouth and hands and quick working fingers until Martin writhes under him, squirms like he’s trying to get away. Martin’s head is thrown back against Peter’s shoulder now, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes and burst-open red mouth mumbling out nonsense syllables. Peter murmurs into Martin’s ear, a low rumble that John can feel in his chest but not understand the words of.

An animal cry as Martin’s back arches, as he throbs slickly between Peter’s fingers, as he spends long seconds with muscles twisted up in almost painful looking configurations. John’s face is hot and his pants are too tight but he can’t tear himself away from the men twined around each other. Peter’s fingers move gently, expertly, bringing Martin down slowly. He resumes thrusting in, faster and slicker now, as Martin hangs insensate in his arms.

John hates his glasses, hates how he can see so clearly as Peter slowly comes to a stop. As his heavy balls draw up and wrinkle, as the base of his colourless cock pulses when he fills Martin full. Martin sighs, and something in John fractures at how Martin sounds so - content.

He can finally look away, but he still hears the squelching of Peter’s clever fingers, the low rumble of his voice. Now that John is staring at the blackness of the hallway, it’s easier to focus, easier to pick syllables out.

_ So good for me, pet. Now let’s just do one more, okay? Perhaps two. Just a few more and we’ll be done for the day, how about that? _

And John has to look back at that, has to see Martin’s tear-streaked face with blurry eyes nod and burrow into Peter fucking Lukas’s shoulder like he, like he  _ wants _ to be there. And Peter presses death-pale lips to kiss Martin’s temple and then opens his eyes to stare out into the hallway.

At John.

John knows Peter can’t -  _ shouldn’t _ be able to see him, he’s out of the light and and wearing dark clothing and pressed up against wood panelling that’s nearly the same color as his skin, he’s about as camouflaged as can be. 

That doesn’t stop Peter from closing his eyes and smiling knowingly before using those too-clever hands of his to make Martin give a broken sob. John waits just a minute, waits just long enough for Peter to drag his hand from Martin’s chest up to his face, to slip two fingers into Martin’s mouth and watch him  _ suck _ \- 

John blinks, and he’s in his office. He’s breathing hard but quietly, his legs burning with lactic acid. He’s hoping that he was quiet when he fled, but the past few minutes are nothing but a blur.

He sits down heavily in his chair, head in his hands. As he sits, he feels something awkwardly clatter against his side and the armrest with a dull sound. Frowning, he reaches in to his cardigan pocket and pulls out a tape recorder. 

It’s running.

Hitting the stop button out of habit, John stares at it. Dull plastic, the grey-green of 1980’s functionality. Innocuous and innocent and somehow one of the most dangerous things in the building. He hits the rewind button with steady fingers, listens to the soft screech of tape against the silence of the Institute.

He’s just going to see what Peter was saying, John tells himself as his finger hovers over the play button. Just - he just needs to see what the man is up to. His eyes flick to the door, checking that it’s closed, it’s locked. Just...in case.

That false resolves shatters as soon as Martin’s voice comes groaning out of the tape speakers, as soon as John jumps in his chair and locks his hands around the armrests with white knuckles, like that will do anything to prevent his body’s reaction.

John is so tense he’s shaking, fingers digging into leather and wood and cock leaking into his trousers. He finally gives in after long minutes of close listening that don’t get him a damn word of what Peter is saying but somehow delivers every breath and choked off gasp of Martin’s directly into John’s ears. He’s unzipping his trousers to adjust himself because he’ll be damned if he’s going on the Tube with a wet spot, but it only takes a brush of his fingers against heated flesh to make John spill all over his hand and the floor, pulses of hot, long-denied want that John can barely admit to himself even as it stickily covers his fist.

He catches his breath as he shakily uses tissues to wipe himself off and the tape starts to come to an end. John can hear himself running down the corridors, recorder bouncing in his pocket and breath coming fast. 

John stares at the recorder as a low voice backed by static comes from the tinny speakers and says,  _ Goodbye, little Watcher. _ He’d been floors away by this point, there’s no way the recorder could have picked up anything. 

Right?

He hits the stop button, then eject. The tape sits there, clear grey plastic and magnetic tape. John yanks it out, fully intent on ripping out the innards and then torching the whole thing, but he finds himself slipping it into his pocket. 

He doesn’t know if it’s an Archivist thing or a John thing, is afraid to find out which. Regardless - 

It burns in his pocket all the way home.

**Author's Note:**

> come say hi on [twitter](https://twitter.com/thereweregiants)


End file.
